Cold Breaker
by LongingForGallifray
Summary: Alice Garrot, (New character, not in show) meets Sherlock and John, and feels drawn to both. But when she meets Jim Moriarty, he threatens to kill her if she does not get Sherlock to fall in love with her, so he can get closer to him. In the midst she finds herself falling for him, and him for her, and together they must solve a prominent mystery which could mean life or death.
1. sherlocked

My heels clicked ferociously on the polished tile floor as I hurried into the hospital. My heart leapt in my chest as corner after corner I turned, hallway after hallway, door after door passed me. My eyes darting left and right, I examined every wall even as I sped by. Then I reached the blue double doors I've been looking for. Stopping, I took a deep, cleansing breath, straightened my dress, lifted my head, and briskly pushed into the room.

The doors swung on their hinges quietly. I quickly looked around, taking everything in. Five rows of tables, five rows of bodies on top of them, covered in starched cloth. Despite the dead filling the room, it had quite a clean, fresh smell. It also smelled slightly of cologne. My head snapped around and spotted two men and a woman standing around an especially long table in the back of the room. They looked up. The girl, I recognized as Molly. She smiled grimly at me, which I returned with a grin. When I turned my eyes to the two men (both good looking, I note), the taller one with the curly black hair squinted his eyes at me. I stopped, my breath momentarily catching in my throat, an unusual feeling coming over me. He gave me a strange look, and I snapped my focus back, smiling at the man beside him. He said nothing but his eyes were filled with warmth. "This is Alice Garrot," Molly said nervously, her eyes flitting between me and the dark haired male. I summed that he made her uncomfortable. Perhaps she fancied him. By the way he held himself, I took he wasn't particularly interested in that fact. I squinted my eyes right back at him.  
"She's a friend of mine and had agreed to take a look at the body, until…I guess you had heard about it so…" she motioned to the body on the table. "She's very talented at what she does." I smiled. "Pleased to meet you," the shorter man said, holding out his hand for me to shake. "I'm John. John Watson." "Pleased to meet you as well, John Watson." His hand was warm. I felt almost disappointed when he pulled away.

"Now, let's have a look, shall we?" I grabbed the stiff fabric in my gloved hands and slowly pulled it away. It was the body of a young girl, no more than fifteen. Her eyes were closed, her mouth slightly parted, her skin a pale green and cold to the touch. "Yes, she is quite dead," I stated. "What seems to be the problem here?"  
"Well, obviously, she seems to have died of unnatural causes, that's the problem," replied John's friend. His deep voice resonated throughout the room, sending unnecessary shivers down my spine. "Though not much of a problem, if you ask me. Molly, please do call me before getting yourself into unneeded situations." Molly stammered. "I didn't want to bother you," she said quietly. He shot her a blinding grin. "Not at all. We were bored. Weren't we, John?"  
"I am sorry. I don't think I caught your name?" I cut in. His cold blue eyes stared into mine. "Sherlock Holmes," he said, his gaze holding mine captive, "Consulting detective. What did you say your profession was, again?" He cocked his head, eyes moving quickly over my body, so fast it would usually go unnoticed, but I could tell he wasn't checking me out—he was examining me.  
Watson put a hand on his shoulder. "Let's not be vindictive, Sherlock. We're trying to solve a murder here."  
"Hardly," Sherlock Murmured.  
"No, that's alright, he has a right to know," I put a tight look on my face to match the sudden tightness in my chest. _Why am I getting so emotional? It's just a silly question_.  
"I don't have an official job, Mr. Holmes. I help out a few detectives here, diagnose a few patients there. I'm like a butterfly, one thing is just too boring for me," I joked coldly. "Now, let's see," I turned back to the body. "It doesn't seem she was murdered, I think she must have—"  
"Killed herself," Sherlock finished. I stared, not just because of his quick conclusion, but also because of the fact that he seemed indifferent, almost as if he was enjoying this. "If you'll notice, the way her eyes are dilated, must be a result of sleeping pills. Too many, obviously. There are faint bruises on her neck, a specific pattern, probably tried to hang herself earlier, first attempt at suicide. Her hand is slightly curled—she was clutching that bottle of pills before she died. Still a trace of tears on her cheeks, she was crying, and I hacked her email account before coming over. She was getting bullied." He examines his fingernails. "Well," I scoffed. "How did you—"  
"Don't ask," John replies. "He does that a lot."  
"Well then, if that was so easy, why on Earth was I asked here?" I ran my fingers through my hair. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I couldn't imagine why." He started towards the door. "Come along John, we've got better things to do." John looked at me apologetically. "It was nice meeting you," he whispered, and ran after Sherlock. The door slammed behind them. I took a deep breath. "Well," I said, a little baffled, turning to Molly. "That was an interesting experience. Who IS he?" Molly sighed. "Best not to get involved with the lot of them," She rubbed her temples. "I've learned that the hard way." A sad smile crossed her face. "Say, if you've got time, I think I am off duty. Coffee?" I smiled at her. "I'd love that. Meet you at the bakery in twenty five, yeah?" And with that, I started towards home, my mind spinning faster than a top.


	2. Watsoned

It felt as if it had gotten colder by the time I got home. I felt drained, even though it was only 9 o'clock in the morning. I kept replaying through my mind the feel of John's hand on mine, the way Sherlock stared into my eyes, like these men had some strange effect on me, which in fact they did. I shook the feeling off, grabbing a scarf and a warmer peacoat then what I left in. Looking at myself in the mirror, I smoothed down my clothes obsessively, a little habit of mine. I grabbed my keys and some cash and ran right back out of the door, making sure to lock it behind me.

The cool, damp London air blasted me in the face the moment I stepped out of the door of my flat. I breathed in the scent of rain before it falls- the smell that seemed to always be present. It was a satisfying sound, the noise my heels made on the pavement, clicking down the street to the old cafe style bakery. The smell of freshly baked bread and coffee wafted through the air even before I turned the corner. I used to come here as a child, every third saturday of the month with my mum. Even though we had very little money, she made it a routine to go to the bakery-for me. Having arrived, I looked out across the outdoor seating, eyes searching for Molly.

I didn't see her. instead, sitting at Molly and I's usual table, was John Watson. A smile crept up on my lips as I walked over to the table. He stood up and grinned. I rolled my eyes. So cliche.

"Remember me?" He pulled out the chair across from him for me to sit down. "Of course I do," I said, holding back a smile. He sat down again. "Molly told me to tell you that she forgot about a last minute priority and couldn't come," he beckoned to the waitress. "I thought I'd come instead. Felt I had to apologize for Sherlock's rude behavior. Well, actually to apologize for you having to meet Sherlock without being warned." He sighed. "That's just how he is. Don't take it personally."

The waitress, a bright eyed blonde, sauntered over to us with her notepad at the ready. "What can I get y'all today?" She beamed. I smiled back. American.  
"We'll have two coffee's, one black and one with cream, thank you," I replied. Once she was gone, John laughed. "How did you know I like my coffee with cream?" I gave him a sly raise of the eyebrows and nothing more. He scooted his chair in closer, making a scraping sound on the patio. "Tell me. Please don't say you're a 'high-functioning sociopath' as well?" Lacing his fingers, he leaned forward intently. _Sociopath?_ I thought. _Well that explains a lot._  
"Your coffee order is peeping out of you pocket." Another laugh escaped him, and he relaxed, mocking wiping his brow dramatically. "Right. So glad I don't have to deal with two of those-One Sherlock is enough. I was going to give that to Mrs. Hudson earlier...thats our Landlady...But she does stuff for us. Nice woman." My eyebrows shot up. "Our?" John looked slightly bashful. "Yeah," he replied. "I share a flat with Sherlock...kind of a long story. We're down at 221B Baker street."  
I was about to say something to that when our waitress-her name tag reads "Carrie"- skipped back with two coffees. She set them down on the table. "Anything else for you two?" She winked knowingly. I turned red. "We're not-"  
"She's not my-"  
"Sure you're not." Carrie beams. "Would you like some sugar?" She held out a handful of packets, even though we already had some on our table. "No thanks," John said, politely shaking his head. A puppy dog frown settled on her face. "Come on, sugar makes everything better! Life is better sweeter! Have some!" She waved the packets frantically. I shot John a glance. "I believe we already declined, we are quite alright without any sugar, thank you." Carrie's face looked worried. She looked around her, eyes scattering from one place to the next, as if she was worried someone was watching her.

Then a taxi pulled up at the curb. Eyes staring like a deer in headlights, she fled back into the cafe, leaving her sugar on our table. I must have had a pretty freaked out look on my face, but John didn't notice, because the door of the car opened, and out came a tall, scarved, trench-coated figure. He looked at us, made an "oh, how quaint" smile, and started strait towards us. None other than Mr. Holmes himself.


	3. Caught in the Middle

**Alright, here's chapter three. Please, review my story if you have feedback- that would mean a lot to me.**

Sherlock pulled out a chair from an empty table and sat right down with us. I squirmed uncomfortably in my seat. "Hello, children," he said, as if he didn't have a care in the world, leaning back on the ornate iron pattern of the chair back. "Waitress?!" He shouted, then turned back to us.  
"Having fun, John?" John put a hand on his forehead.  
"Well, I was, Sherlock. Would you mind not busting in on every private moment I ever get with a girl?" He glared at him, and an embarrassed flush crept up on his cheeks. Sherlock's eyes twinkle. "Oh, I am sorry. Didn't realize you were on to the next one so fast." He looked at me, a sly grin on his face. "Ah, the jobless brunette beauty. Oooo, and this one's got an attitude," he winked when I narrowed my eyes. Another big glare from John.  
"Why exactly are you here?" I inquired, shoving down all of the rude comebacks that jumped onto the tip of my tongue. Sherlock sighed. "Bored." He took out a rubix cube.  
Not Carrie, but a red headed waitress strided over to our table and set a steaming cup of black coffee in front of Sherlock. "This one's on me," She winked, and slinked right out back the way she came in. NOT American, I noted.  
My mouth must have been hanging out a little, because Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I did her a favor once. She took it the wrong way."  
I shook my head and shut my mouth. "You're here because you're...bored?" He looked up from his rubix cube, but his long, slender fingers kept moving rapidly. "Yes. Bored. Always bored, am I. Is that a phenomenon?" He reached out for a sugar packet, but I smacked his hand. John smirked and Sherlock stared. "Best not to touch those," I sipped my coffee and looked at him knowingly. He shook his head confusedly. After a moment of awkward silence, I stood up. "Well, you be bored here, I am going to use the ladies room. Be back in a flash." With that I started off towards the cafe building. On my way there, I saw a couple of ripped open sugar packets lying on the ground. I went to pick them up at the same time as the man sitting at the table right there. "Oh, I'm sorry," I mumbled, and he nodded his head so that his glasses slid down onto his wide nose, which was ridden with freckles. "Pardon me." I continued to seek out the restroom.

When I finished freshening up, I walked back through the cafe interior. No sign of our waitress. The inside was comfortable and small, I should've been able to see her. My eyes swept over wooden tables, a counter and case filled with pastries, over every corner of the shop. No Carrie. The people in the shop chattered quietly, enjoying their delicacies, creating a low, gentle din that made me want to go back outside and enjoy my coffee. But instead I walked to the back of the room. I felt the wall and reached a latch. It was cold and smooth, and clicked when I pressed down on it, opening the back door without a sound. It was slightly dark beyond, so it must not have led to the outside.  
I peered around, scanning a narrow garage-type room, dimly lit with flickering lights. I stepped with my body half in the cafe and half in the cold dark room beyond, sliding carefully further through the door. Finally, I closed it behind me.  
And the lights went out.  
I tried to scream, but my air was cut off. My hands were bound behind me. Panic raced through my veins. My kicking and struggling was no use. I felt a cold sharp object pierce my skin, and slowly I felt my motions become sluggish, until I lost consciousness altogether.

**OOOH, look, i've created a cliffhanger! Ohmigosh, I am becoming a Steven Moffat...the next chapter to come soon.**


	4. The Meeting

When my consciousness came back to me, it was still very dark. I was aware that I was sitting, my hands and feet bound to a cold metal chair. A single spotlight, as if I was the star of an opera, shined down on me, and I squinted to see beyond my little lit up circle, blinking rapidly. As soon as my eyes adjusted, I could see the outline of a male figure with his hands in his pockets. He appeared to be studying me. "Who is there?" I demanded. "Show yourself!"

A dark chuckle resonated throughout the space. As if on cue, another spotlight clicked on, this time some feet in front of me. First a sleek black shoe, then a pinstriped pant leg, then a whole body stepped into the light. A voice, not as dark as the chuckle, came from his mouth. "Hello, Ms. Garrot," the man smiled, a wicked, bright smile. "How nice to see you again." l struggled in my bindings. "I have not the slightest what you are talking about," I growled, though something tugging at the back of my mind begged to differ. "Is this really necessary?" I nodded to the ropes holding me hostage. He clasped his hands behind his back. "Quite. Makes for such a dramatic effect, don't you think? I do enjoy a dramatic entrance." Though his face was fairly normal, forgettable, nothing special, his eyes were dark and cold, almost crazed looking.

"Alice, Alice, Alice. It's been such a long time since I last saw you, Alice." My mind raced. "I have never seen you before in my life!" I spoke exasperatedly. "What ARE you going on about? Who are you, and why am I here?" The man grabbed a chair from the darkness that seemed to have materialized from nowhere, pulled it close so mine, and sat. He leaned in, so that our faces were inches away. "To answer your first question, the name's Jim Moriarty. As to your second question, there are multiple answers." He clasped his hands and rested his chin on them. "You have something I want, i'm afraid. And you have.-or I anticipate you will have, soon-a connection to someone that I...require a more physical connection to." I scoff. "And what makes you think that I will be giving you any 'physical connection' to anyone?"

He touched my chin, and I jerked it up definitely. The corners of his mouth turned up in a smile. "Because if you don't, then I am going to have to dispose of you." His breath sent goosebumps up my skin. My voice cracked when I spoke. "And what would that include?" But my defiance was gone. That widespread, wicked smile stretched back across his face, and he tauntingly poked my nose. "You're a smart little girl. Deduce." He sighed. "I really do hope you agree. It would be such a shame to waste such a smart young mind." And even closer, in a whisper, "fear keeps the mind alive. Make the right choice."

With a wink, he took out a long syringe. "I'll be seeing you soon." And with that, before I could yell out, the needle pierced the skin of my neck, sending a sharp shock over me, until my vision grew muddied and grew dark altogether.


	5. Anesthesia

**Sorry I was slow to post this chapter, with school and everything. Tried to make it a little longer :)**

"Alice. Alice! Can you hear me? Sherlock, would you please put down your refrigerated toes and come down here?!"  
John's voice is muddied, but slowly becoming clearer. I blink my eyes, and a fuzzy image of him comes into view. Sherlock walks out the door.  
"They aren't toes, John, they're human cardiovascular systems. Honestly, what use would I have for toes?" He comes into view as well, and glances down at me. "Goodness, what do we have here? John, when girls break up with you, it usually isn't this serious."  
John ignores him. "I just heard a ring at the door and she was lying on the step, unconscious. And she just dissapeared from the coffee shop!" He leans down. "Alice, are you quite alright? Can you hear me?" Sherlock pushes him out of the way. "Calm down, she'll be fine John. Just a bit of anesthesia." He puts an ear to my mouth and quickly shut my eyes. "Make that a lot," he mutters. "Right then," he sighs "cardiovascular systems will have to wait. John, open the door for me." I feel myself being lifted off of the ground and hoisted into Sherlock's arms. I try to be as light as possible.  
"Why did she have to be tall? Couldn't have been small and scrawny like the last one," he grunts. My face flushes.  
"She was not scrawny!" John protests.  
"1300 calorie diet," Sherlock mutters.  
It's a smoother trip up the stairs then I expected. Good, considering the size of my headache. A squeal comes from inside the flat when the I hear the door close.  
"Sherlock! What have you done this time?"  
I am laid gently down onto a couch, and I immediately sink into it. "Relax, Mrs. Hudson, she's fine, and it had nothing to do with me, if that makes you feel better. She showed up on the step."  
"Well then," Mrs. Hudson mutters, her kind voice floating through to room. "You boys. I won't even ask this time." I hear her exit the flat and walk downstairs.  
When she's gone, a chair screeches over the floor to where I lay and one of them sits down in it, creating a faint creaking sound.  
I feel as if my head is a swimming pool in which a particularly vicious shark is circling around and around. I let out a little delirious moan. "She's alright!" John sounds relieved. "Yes yes, didn't I say that?" Sherlock puts a hand on my wrist, taking my pulse. He then moves his hand to the back of my head, and pulls my eyelids open, as if peering into my soul. "No concussion." John lets out a rush of air. "Let's just let her rest then." Then he pauses. "Hold on. I'm the doctor, not you. Let me do that next time." I can practically hear him making a confused face. They walk a little further away, but I can still make out John's words. "Sherlock," he whispers, "are you..._concerned?_" Sherlock scoffs, and walks into another room. "Don't be ridiculous. A drugged girl with a bad attitude? Please." I Flinch. A long silence.  
"Well." John shifts. "I've got to run some errands so...-"  
"The girl is not going to fall out of a window, John. Do what you need to do." John is silent, then the door shuts and he's gone.  
Sherlock is quiet for a while, then he sighs. His footsteps grow closer, until he's sitting in the chair close to me. "Do open your eyes, there's no need for that." I Slowly do as he says, blinking at the light. "You could have done that before, you know." His blue eyes stare down at me. My words slur when I speak. "It's not exactly ideal for my comfort." He reaches beside him and holds a steaming cup of tea. "Here. Drink this." I try to take the cup in my shaking hands but almost drop it. He grabs it before it spills. "Dear god," he sighs, then slowly puts the cup to my lips. I sip it carefully, draining it to the last drop, careful not to do anything stupid like spill it on him. My eyelids get heavier, and he stands up. "You should feel better when you wake up. Try not to knock anything over when your sleeping." And the last thing I see before I fall asleep is him settling into the armchair, eyes still trained on me.


	6. Sugar Sweet

_I stand in a huge echoing room with a large pool right in the middle. The reflection of the water makes wave patterns on the high ceiling, changing every second. My footsteps echo off the walls, and soon I find myself at one end of the pool, sitting, feet dangling in the cool water. Looking up, I see the dark hair and pale skin of Sherlock at the opposite side of the room, sitting just as I am, fully clothed, but he doesn't seem to notice his shoes and pants are submerged in water. I look down, suddenly noticing what I am wearing. A long fuchsia ballgown puffs out in front of me, gold embroidered bottom and matching gold heels soaked. I train my eyes back on Sherlock, and slowly lower myself further into the pool. He copies exactly. We are both in to our hips, then to our waists, until we are 5 feet apart and treading water, whole bodies completely wet, save our heads. At that same moment we both duck under the water and open our eyes, which seem immune to the sting of the chlorine filled water. His dark curls float around his head like a cloud, and his icy eyes pierce my vision. Then suddenly, I feel a tug at my feet. Looking down, the pool seems to extend down forever. My fuchsia dress is in tattered shreds, streaked with stains. A sort of gravity pulls at my body. Heart pumping, I jerk my head up. Sherlock is in the same exact condition, eyes turned wild. The gravity becomes stronger, and I am rapidly pulled further down. He stays up, as if there is no pull straining to drown him. Panic sets in, and my hand reaches out to grasp his wrist. As soon as my skin touches his, a cold shock runs through me, and I shoot downwards, pulling him with me. My vision is going blurry, and my lungs are bursting with the craving for air. We try desperately to swim up, but an invisible wall prevents any upward motion. As my eyelids grown heavier and I start to grow numb, he reaches over to me, swims in close with the last of his fading strength, tilts my chin up and his face down and-_

"Do you always thrash around like that when you sleep?" I sit up lightning-fast, gasping loudly. I check around me frantically-no tattered dress, no water, and the Sherlock here doesn't even bother to look up from his microscope on the kitchen table when he speaks. I calm myself down from the trauma of the vivid dream, kicking my feet over the edge of the couch and setting them on the ground. "Only when I have hallucinogenic-produced nightmares," I laugh shakily to cover up my emotions. Sherlock put down the slide he is examining and stands up, finally looking at me. "Well now that you're finally awake after 36 hours 22 minutes and 16 seconds, I'm off a crime scene." He grabs his coat off a chair and swings it on in one motion. "Lestrade really needs to get himself a better team. I can't come at his call every time someone so much as scratches themselves." I jump up and start to walk after him. "I was out for _Thirty Six Hours_? Hold on, you can't just walk off to some crime scene the minute I'm conscious!" He stops and turns around. "And why exactly is that?" I grin. "Without taking me with you."

I step out of the taxi and cross over to join Sherlock. We walk up silently to a small, dirty alley, then make our way through. Trash and graffiti cover the walls and the ground, and I have to step carefully over multiple knocked over bottles and black puddles. On the other side is a small flat, and several police cars and officers swarm the street in front of it. Sherlock strides right over to a handsome man with silver hair and a detective's badge. He turns around, with a look on his face that says "oh thank god" and "dear god here we go" at the same time.  
"Sherlock. Thanks for coming." He looks around nervously. "Please do try not to make a scene, you know how much they hate it when...well, anyways." He turns his eyes to me. "Who's your...friend?" He asks the question skeptically, like he can't believe Sherlock has any friends. Sherlock starts to talk, but I cut him off, putting my hand out for him to shake it. "Alice Garrot. Just an...acquaintance. You must be detective inspector Lestrade. A pleasure to meet you." He looks a little surprised, but takes my hand and shakes it anyway. "Please, call me Greg. Now, let's take a look at the body, shall we?"

We climb the steep stairs to the top room, and make our way into a tight living room with a little green couch, an ornate rug, a coffee table, and not much else. On the couch a man is seated. Or rather, he was seated. He is slouched and tilted so that he's laid out of the couch in a sort of crumpled ball. The whole room has been covered with sterile cloth and stripped of most of its furniture, and several other people mill around inside. One looks up and groans loudly. "You've got to be kidding me! You invited HIM here AGAIN?" Sherlock swings around and rolls his eyes. "Anderson, if you would like to stop seeing me, why don't you get yourself another department? Please, do leave so I can think without having my IQ significantly lowered." Greg gives Anderson a strict look, and though he tries to protest, he leaves with a sour look on his face.

"Did you do a blood test?" Sherlock strides over and crouches down, examining the man's hands, clothes, checking his eyes. Lestrade shakes his head. "Of course we did. Nothing. No poison, no drugs, nothing. If there was anything, it left his bloodstream pretty quickly." Sherlock puts his hands together and rests his chin on them. I walk a little closer and get a look at the man's face, which is sprinkled with freckles, and is home to a beat of pair of glasses. I am almost knocked over with surprise when I find that I recognize him. But from where?  
"By the state of his dress, he hasn't been anywhere significant in the past 40 hours, but he's definitely been out of the house."  
"How can you tell that?" Lestrade sighs.  
Sherlock looks back at him, an annoyed, wide eyed look on his face. "Good god, Lestrade, use your head! The bottom of his shoes are still dirty, and scuffed, but recently enough so that you can still see the mark. And the fact that he is wearing shoes at all says something. Look at the state of his furniture, this is not a man that would leave his shoes on in the house. He must have died soon after returning from wherever he was, must have been in pain, because he didn't take his shoes off at all." He furrows his brow. "But where..." Then it clicks in my head.  
"The cafe," I blurt out. Sherlock whips his head around and stares at me. "Excuse me?"  
"The cafe," I repeat. "That's where he was. I saw him when I was going inside...he dropped something on the ground and I picked it up..." It's all a little bit of a blur since so much had seemed to happen since then." My eyes widen. "Sugar. He dropped sugar packets on the ground. And the waitress that was serving John and I...she seemed over enthusiastic about us taking the sugar." I smile when they both look shocked. "Surprised you didn't pick up that bit, Sherly." My voice drips with sticky sweet accusation.  
Then I remember Moriarty's threat. I swallow slowly and wipe the smile off my face.  
"Sugar," Sherlock whispers. "It was in the sugar." I see a small smile creep up on his face. He laughs, and suddenly his smile spreads to his whole face, and he beams at me. "Brilliant, Alice." I am pretty sure my jaw must have dropped to the floor at that moment.  
"The sugar. But why would someone want to kill random people...and in public, for that matter?" Lestrade shakes his head. Sherlock jumps up and starts to pace. "Not this time. It's not random this time. Something is linking these people. And that's what we're about to find out." He walks to the door and turns around. "Come along, Alice," He winks. "We're gonna catch ourselves a murderer."


End file.
